Still The Mind Smiles At Its Own

We Have To Live Like People In A Web Of Knives, We Mustn't Reach Out Our Hands Or We Get Them Gashed.

Shiva... Is The Only Hunter That Will Ever Catch The Wild Swan; The Prey She Will Take Last Is The Wild White Swan Of The Beauty Of Things. Then She Will Be Alone, Pure Destruction, Achieved And Supreme, Empty Darkness Under The Death-tent Wings. She Will Build A Nest Of The Swan's Bones And Hatch A New Brood, Hang New Heavens With New Birds, All Be Renewed.

We Might Remember ... Not To Fear Death; It Is The Only Way To Be Cleansed.

I Hate My Verses, Every Line, Every Word. Oh Pale And Brittle Pencils Ever To Try One Grass-blade's Curve, Or The Throat Of One Bird That Clings To Twig, Ruffled Against White Sky. Oh Cracked And Twilight Mirrors Ever To Catch One Color, One Glinting Flash, Of The Splendor Of Things.

...science And Mathematics Run Parallel To Reality, They Symbolize It, They Squint At It, They Never Touch It: Consider What An Explosion Would Rock The Bones Of Men Into Little White Fragments And Unsky The World If Any Mind For A Moment Touch Truth.